


And So You Held Me Together by the Threads of My Seams

by FanFictionIsMyWeakness



Category: South Park
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, Existentialism, Explicit Sexual Content, Kyle is frustrated, M/M, Mentions of Physical Fights, Mentions of Suicide Attempt, Physical Altercations, Stan is Fucking Sad, They Aren't Super Healthy All the Time, implicit sexual content, minor injury mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 00:37:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13135485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FanFictionIsMyWeakness/pseuds/FanFictionIsMyWeakness
Summary: Sometimes, Stan will wonder if he's just an empty body, hurtling through the void of space with nothing more than his own darkness and the burn of liquor to keep him occupied. Trapped in his own existential dread, he can't help but feel as though he'd need a miracle to pull him out. And sometimes, those miracles will stand two feet in front of you, with nothing more than sharp features and fiery passion and analytical eyes, and you feel like everything is breaking but you. Sometimes, a miracle isn't everything you want, but everything you need. And Stan, well, he feels like he's already six feet under when Kyle takes it upon himself to pull him out. But things aren't always perfect fairy tales, and Kyle is certainly not the knight in shining armor that Stan is looking for.ORSeveral instances in Stan's life that have built him into the person he is today. They all, good and bad, involve Kyle.





	And So You Held Me Together by the Threads of My Seams

**Author's Note:**

> For the most part, Stan's characterization is heavily based on the episodes "You're Getting Old," and "Ass Burgers."

Sometimes, when Stan lays awake at night, staring at the never ending abyss of blackness that decorates every corner of his room, he begins to contemplate. He can feel the warm body next to his shift, soft, shallow breathing and the steady tick of the clock being the only things interrupting that silence of his thoughts as his eyes train themselves on an empty void of space. He doesn't know what's in front of him, not really. He thinks it's his ceiling, eight feet high and popcorn textured with those ugly bumps of plaster he's always hated, but he can't be sure because he's always been the sort of person to relay on his vision in order to believe something. So in the middle of the night, when everything is sleeping soundly and the world around him is dark and cold and warped, he can't be sure of anything aside from the warmth of another sleeping figure and the void that his life seemed to have always been pummeling into when he was a kid, stuck in the shadow of a small town with nothing more to do than drink and smoke and think as mindless television played in the background, giving his mind the noise it needed to avoid his own existential dread.

 

Sometimes still, Stan will let his gaze wander with his thoughts, because somehow, they're both always drawn back to Kyle. Red curls and sharp cheekbones are his favorite combination, Stan thinks, especially when they're paired with the light splatter of freckles that dance across the bridge of a large, hooked nose. In his dreams, he kisses thin lips, he sees the stars and the galaxies lighting up behind the irises of green, almond-shaped eyes, and he can feel that warm breath panting against the hollow of his throat. In his dreams, Stan sees the love of his life for what he is -a creature of sharpness, of wit and ambition that is occasionally overshadowed by strong waves of rage, the kind that crashes over everything in its path as white, slightly crooked teeth grind to the bones. He sees beauty in the features that his love considers beauty-less, sees kindness in the curves of his nose and the point in his chin, can spot the calculating intelligence behind every spark in mossy eyes, can feel the heat of fiery passion as he runs his fingers through delicate red curls. He sees all of this and more when he's awake, when his gaze finds that peaceful expression Kyle wears while he dozes, his mouth slightly open, eyes fluttered closed, cheek pressed into the pillow under his head, and Stan is suddenly yanked out of his aimless drifting in the void of his life. He is, instead, caught in Kyle's orbit, heart hammering rapidly against his chest as he's pushed and pulled by the gravity of this boy -this beautiful, _beautiful_ boy- and he never wants to let go.

 

Sometimes, Stan wonders if Kyle knows what he does and if he does it on purpose. He wonders if Kyle is aware of his own beauty, of the way his kisses steal the breath from Stan's lungs, of the way his thin, nimble fingers force tingles down Stan's spine when he cards them through thick, black hair, of the way he pants and moans and whines and how all his little noises make Stan's head spin. Being with Kyle is both an illusion and far too real, both a fictitious world that Stan crafted in the spaces of his mind and his everyday reality, and it's both too much and not enough. He's afraid of clinging too hard and losing this magical thing that he's managed to keep locked tight in his arms for years upon years, but he only wants to cling harder, to never, _ever_ let go of the one thing that keeps him grounded, even in his darkest days. Kyle is not just a person, nor is he just a lover or a friend, but he's a source of stability, the strong willed voice of reason that keeps Stan from losing to the battles of his thoughts, the ambition that powers Stan to continue on, to persevere through the worst moments of his days. Kyle is not his love, he is his _everything_.

 

* * *

 

They meet in late August, the school year just beginning and the warmth of summer coming to a close. Stan is still small and chubby, with fat little legs and a dark blue hat too big for his head. He has a large tuft of black hair on his crown, but awkward points of thinning and fuzz everywhere else. His father calls him a 'late bloomer,' which Stan doesn't fully understand until he follows his parents into his designated classroom, the smallest room in South Park Elementary School, hosting over twenty little four-year-old's and their nervous looking parents. Except, to Stan, they aren't so little. All the other kids are taller, bigger, with fuller heads of hair and missing front teeth as they run and jump and play in the rowdy way children do. Stan inches behind his mother's leg, clutching the fabric of her jeans as his large brown eyes scan the room. He hasn't had much interaction with other children, aside from his mean older sister and her friends, but they never want to play with him. Instead, Stan is always left to his own devices, building legos and racing toy cars by his lonesome. Occasionally, when he's lucky enough, his father will play catch with him in the backyard. That had been happening a lot of the summer, and Stan was beginning to get a feel for the football cradled in his hands.

 

An adult woman at the front of the classroom claps her hands, three times in a strange pattern Stan doesn't recognize, but it's catchy enough that he, as well as the twenty other children, feel the need to imitate it. The room settles, a quiet washing over the atmosphere that had not previously been intact. As the woman at the front introduces herself as “Miss Claridge,” claiming that she will be Stan's teacher, he scans the room, not paying much attention after her little introduction. He doesn't like the idea of pre-school, this strange concept of not being aloud to stay home with his parents and run and jump and play as he pleases, but instead having to go to school, just as Shelly does, and learn things he doesn't want to learn.

 

“Stan, honey,” his mother says, gently prying herself away from his strong, four-year-old grip. “We're going to be leaving now, okay? Give me a hug goodbye.” Stan holds on tightly to his mother's shoulders as she crouches down to wrap her arms around him. She kisses him on the cheek before letting go and allowing his father to awkwardly ruffle his hair. Stan watches them, as well as the other parents, file out the door, not to be seen for another eternity. Stan will miss them, he thinks, with no one else to talk to, to give him hugs and kisses and make him peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch and throw the football back and forth in the backyard. He doesn't want to talk to the other kids, not if they're all so big and intimidating -aside from a select few- and he certainly doesn't want to have to sit still and be quiet for the hours he'll be spending in the classroom.

 

He's surprised to find that he's given playtime, an indeterminate amount of time in which he can stack blocks or finger paint or race toy cars, and he doesn't mind playing alone until he sees all the other children with someone else to play with. He feels his heart sink, suddenly isolated from the others, running and laughing and playing with their new friends as he sits in a corner alone, attempting to stack blocks only to knock them all down. That's when he spots him, the only other child entirely by his lonesome, a cardboard book with bright and colorful pictures perched in his lap. He has on a bright green hat with a wild mane of untamed, red curls pocking out from beneath it, and Stan feels inclined to talk to him, so that neither of them would be quite so alone.

 

“Hi,” Stan says, and he tries to puff out his chest and put his hands on his hips, the way he always sees his father doing when he's trying to look impressive, and he grins toothily when the other boy slowly looks up at him. Even as a young child, Stan can see the calculating coolness behind those big green eyes, a spark of intelligence that makes him want to shrivel up and cry over his own inadequacy, but he perseveres, nothing if not determined. “I'm Stan. What's your name?” He isn't really sure what he's doing, but he always sees adults tell each other their names when meeting new people. Stan figures it's a good place to start. The boy smiles softly, bringing his knees to his chest and gently closing the cardboard book.

 

“I'm Kyle.” He says, and his voice is strong for a four year old, as if he has no doubts or shyness within him. Stan wonders why he doesn't have anyone to play with, if he manages to exhibit so much confidence in just giving his name. Surely he doesn't _want_ to be alone? “Do you want to read with me?” Stan shrugs and sits down next him, grabbing the book from Kyle's chubby hands. He doesn't have many books in his house, but sometimes he mom will read him bedtime stories and he'll point to all the pictures. It isn't exactly his favorite thing to do, but he likes it okay. However, there are a lot of strange marking underneath the pictures of Kyle's book, which Stan knows are words, but he isn't sure what they say. He recognizes certain letters, like A, S, C, B, T, and N, but not enough to piece together what anything says. Kyle points to one of the words, written underneath a large picture of a brown spotted dog.

 

“Do you know what that says?” He asks and Stan shakes his head. Kyle grins widely, smug about having a bit of knowledge another boy doesn't. “It says dog. D-O-G.” He looks proud of himself as he points to each individual letter. “I know the entire alphabet.” He boasts and Stan stares at him, almost awestruck. “My mama reads with me all the time.” Stan traces his finger tips over the word, trying to memorize each letter.

 

“Do you have a dog?” He asks and Kyle shakes his head, his grin falling ever so slightly.

 

“No, mama says they're messy. But I really like dogs!” He sounds dejected and it makes Stan feel a little sad. He pats Kyle's shoulder.

 

“I have a dog.” He says. “His name is Sparky. You can come over and play with him whenever you want.” Kyle's eyes light up when Stan says it, scooting impossibly closer so that their shoulders press together.

 

“Really?” Kyle asks and Stan nods, a large grin spreading across his face.

 

“Really, really.”

 

* * *

 

When Stan is nine and going through the pain of his first ever break up, Kyle is there to cheer him up. He's not great at it, Stan soon learns, because he's not a very emotion-oriented person, but he still appreciates the effort. He thinks, however, that there must be something wrong with Kyle to have such little interest in the concepts of dating and love and relationships and although Stan is by no means an expert himself, he thinks it's abnormal to not care at all about the opinions of girls. Stan remembers the third grade, and he remembers it quite vividly -the way Bebe had been so insistent on kissing Kyle on the mouth and how Kyle had done nothing more than retch away from her, running out of the tree house kicking and screaming. He had found it odd, to say the least, considering Stan himself had been quite interested in the prospect of kissing a girl, and had actually found it to be kind of nice. But now it's over, the kissing and the way their palms would clasp together, the shy smiles they'd share across the room. It's all over and there isn't much Stan could do aside from wallow in the oceans of his own self misery.

 

Kyle seems to have this idea in his head that their relationship was meaningless enough to just toss away at the drop of a hat and the smile of a new, pretty girl. He seems to think of girls as something that can be easily replaced, and part of Stan almost wishes that were true, but unfortunately, no one can replace Wendy. He feels as if his heart has been swallowed by a vortex, plummeting into the vacuum of space never to be seen again. Wendy was smart, ambitious, and kind -she knew what she wanted and wasn't afraid to grasp it in her hands without hesitation. She did so with Stan's heart, but apparently had no qualms with crushing it beneath the weight of her fingers as well. He feels like a fool. A lovesick, delusional fool, and wonders what it would take to never feel this way again. Sometimes, he wishes he could be more like Kyle, analytical and calculated, logical to a fault with a strong code of ethics. In a lot of ways, Stan admires his best friend. And although Kyle's methods to help cheer him up ultimately fail, he still appreciates the gesture.

 

* * *

 

When Stan screams at Kyle to get the fuck out of his room, that he hates him and wishes they had never met, he's drunk off stolen schnapps and halfway to death, his vision spotting around the corners as he stands on a chair in his closet, a noose tied in a double knot hanging in front of his face. It's the perfect height to just slip his head through, to tighten around his neck as he kicks the chair out from underneath him and allows the rope to take the air from his lungs. Kyle has caught him in the nick of time, right before Stan could start having second thoughts. He's twelve, physically, but his soul feels weighed down by more years than it's held, and his mind is always ready to crack. He's desperate for a solution, and although it's been a while since he's thought about God or Heaven, there's comfort in the idea that he may find peace there. Kenny is adamant about the existence of Heaven and although Stan finds that sort of belief to be naive, he takes comfort in it. He needs Kyle to leave so he can find out for sure.

 

The problem is, Kyle isn't budging. As a matter of fact, he's only coming closer, inching toward Stan cautiously, as if he's a feeble deer, and not saying anything. Stan continues to scream, because he knows his parents are out of the house with his sister -just as he had planned- and he sees no reason to be quiet. He screeches until he's blue in the face, throwing out the nastiest words he knows, telling Kyle that he's a rat and a snake, that he's a fucking loser that nobody likes or cares about, that Stan had only been friends with him because he felt bad seeing someone sitting alone, that Kyle should feel honored that Stan is such a generous person. They seem to bounce off of Kyle as if he never heard them, so Stan tries new words, insults he would normally never resort to.

 

“Stay the fuck away from me, you dirty fucking kike!” He screams, and he's aware that hot tears are running down his face and he feels dizzy and wants nothing more than to just lay down and fall asleep forever, but he also knows that death cannot be that peaceful. Not for him, at least. It seems to do the trick, however, because Kyle has stopped in his tracks, his face heating up in flames as those green eyes narrow and his arms cross over his chest.

 

“Stan,” he says, and it's not his usual anger. Kyle's usual anger is a firecracker of rage, a flame that shoots ten feet in the air before dying out just as quickly and it can easily be calmed by a kick or a punch or smashing something ceramic. This is cold, drawn off, recluse in a way Kyle has never been to him before, and it only makes Stan cry harder, the kinds of fat, ugly tears that no one should ever see him cry, much less the person he respects the most. The person he just threw slurs at for the sake of a selfish fit. Kyle's gaze softens and his arms flop uselessly to his sides. He takes another step forward and his hand is on the small of Stan's back, guiding his off the chair ever so slowly and steering him toward the bed. “Stan,” he says again, and this time it's a whisper and he tugs Stan closer to him, wrapping his arms around Stan's shoulders in a tight embrace.

 

“I'm so sorry.” Stan says, sobbing into his shoulder, and he is. He's sorry for everything, for being a shitty friend, for being a selfish person, for calling Kyle names when he was only trying to help. Stan is so fucking sorry. But Kyle doesn't ask questions, doesn't beg him to talk about it, just shakes his head and holds Stan a little closer.

 

“Shh,” he murmurs and his lips are just barely grazing Stan's temple, in a way that's so intimate that Stan will continue thinking about it for years to come. “Don't apologize.” Somehow, that makes Stan want to blubber out apologies even more, but he doesn't. “Just cry.” That, Stan can do.

 

And so he cries,

 

and he cries,

 

and he cries.

 

“Please don't tell my parents.” He mumbles when he's shed too many tears to shed anymore. Kyle presses his lips together, running his fingers through Stan's hair.

 

“I won't.” He says and Stan breathes a sigh of relief. “If you promise to always come to me when you're feeling this way.”

 

Stan promises, but it's not a promise he's great at keeping.

 

* * *

 

He's almost certain that he doesn't self harm, regardless of how much Kyle insists that he does. Stan's never been the type to desperately pick apart disposable razors in an attempt to get to the blades, needing to slice open his own skin, nor does he play with fire for the sake of a burn and all of his bruises are from his own rowdiness, tumbling while he plays sports or falling out of the trees he's trying to climb. But Kyle doesn't seem to think that matters the day Stan shows up to Freshman orientation with a flask shoved in his back pocket, half drunk and red in the face. He must interpret Kyle's look of disappointment for something else, because when he plops down next to him atop the high school bleachers, he offers Kyle a swig of whiskey. It's a bad move, he's almost certain, because the look Kyle gives him is so disgusted and disappointed that Stan may as well have punched him.

 

Kenny does take some, however, gulping down half of Stan's flask in one go and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, a large, toothy smile on his face. Normally, Stan would be annoyed if someone tried to bum all that liquor off of him, but Kenny is one of his best friends and he's always found his way of stealing liquor or bumming cigarettes kind of charming, in an odd way, so he lets it slide. Kyle watches them with a coldness in his eyes, arms crossed over his skinny chest and his lips pulled tight and thin. Stan tries to make a joke, because even though he's dizzy and laughing a little too loud, he still knows that the situation is tense, and maybe he can diffuse it with humor. He asks Kyle why he can't be fun, like Kenny, which is clearly the wrong thing to say because after that Kyle stands up and walks away, not saying a word, but an uncharacteristically icy rage freezing over his eyes.

 

“Jesus Christ,” Kenny says, and Stan can smell the harsh liquor on his breath. “Who shat in his cereal?” Stan shrugs. He wants to believe that with Kyle gone, it's not much of a loss, but he's also aware that he's more than just annoyed, he's fucking _furious_ , and Stan isn't sure what he can do to rectify the situation.

 

When orientation is over, they walk home together, and the fight that breaks out is of epic proportions.

 

“I don't even understand why it's such a big _deal_ ,” Stan says, and he's not exactly yelling, but his voice is harsh and his eyes are squeezed shut in his irritation. He doesn't really yell much anymore, not when it's with Kyle, at least, but he doesn't think this tone is much better. “It's not like you care when Kenny does any of this shit.” He likes to use the Kenny argument a lot, because he's fully aware that Kyle doesn't hold him to the same standards as he does Stan. It's piss poor, really, but Stan is still a little tipsy and he's annoyed and he really doesn't want to be fighting right now, so he can't think of a better argument. Kyle rolls his eyes, his arms crossed over his chest in a way where he seems distant and closed off, as if he's above a petty argument.

 

“Shut the fuck up, Stan.” He says, and there are flashes of rage behind his eyes that makes Stan want to flinch away. He tries to tell himself that he is _not_ scared of Kyle, but that sort of certainty would be a boldfaced lie. He's walking briskly, a foot and a half ahead of Stan and he doesn't seem to be dizzy or stumbling at all. It's all kind of intimidating. “ _Kenny_ never promised me shit. _Kenny_ doesn't have a problem.” He doesn't turn back, but Stan is almost certain he'd be given a pointed look if Kyle had.

 

“I don't have a problem either.” Stan says, and he really hates how weak his voice sounds, but he hates it more when Kyle stops dead in his tracks, slowly turning his body to give Stan a wide-eyed, disbelieving look, as if he's still trying to process whether or not he heard correctly. The quiet is deadly, the sort of ice that can pierce through a man's heart if he's not careful, and Stan previously had no idea that he could feel so small and so cold in the heat of his best friend's presence.

 

“When was the last time you went twenty-four hours without drinking?” Kyle asks and he's quiet, as if the fire of his anger has burned out and he has nothing left aside from sadness. Stan hesitates, and in his hesitation, Kyle sucks in a deep breath. “Right.” He says and turns back away, looking into the distince sadly. “That's what I thought.”

 

“Hey, wait, that's not fair.” Stan says and he tries to jog up to Kyle but he briefly loses his balance and ends up smacking him in the shoulder. “Shit,” he murmurs, gripping Kyle's bicep tightly and trying not to meet his gaze. He's not exactly sure how Kyle is looking at him right now, but he knows he won't like it. “You can't just -you caught me off guard!” He tries to defend himself, because he can't admit to his best friend he has a drinking problem, not if it'll mean losing his friendship. “I don't drink that much, okay?” Lies. It's all complete lies. Stan knows it's a problem, knows that the second he started relying on alcohol just to feel normal, he developed an addiction, and he knows that he has no intention to change. If sobriety equates normalcy, than Stan's normal is darkness and gloom, with just enough nihilism sprinkled in keep his happiness in the bottoms of brightly colored bottles. He doesn't want to go back to that normal. Not now, not ever. “Just, you know. For fun.”

 

“For fun.” Kyle repeats and he sounds kind of hollow. It's not a sound Stan likes. “So, when you got drunk and tried to kill yourself, was that for fun?” Stan is taken aback, because he doesn't remember most of that night. It was nearly two years ago now, and he was quite intoxicated. He wasn't even sure if it actually happened until now. He and Kyle had never talked about it before. “What about six months ago, when your parents split and you guzzled a fifth of vodka and cried about how it was all your fault? Was it _fun_ then?” His words are venomous to Stan's ears and he hates them. He hates hearing Kyle talk like this, hates having his mistakes brought up to haunt him when he had been trying so fucking hard to push them as far down as they could go. “What about the last time Wendy broke up with you? What was that -last week? Did you have _fun_ nearly drinking yourself to death, only to go crawling back to her three days later because you're _fucking pathetic_?”

 

Stan acts before he can take a moment to think, swinging his fist so that it connects with Kyle's jaw, _hard_ , and watches in horror as his best friend stumbles backward, clutching the side of his face as his expression twists in pain.

 

“Fuck you!” Stan shouts, his limbs quaking as he tries to breathe, to calm down before he feels the urge to punch Kyle again. He knows, rationally, that he really doesn't want to fight, but he also is angry and hurt and he can't think of a better way to release all of the negative emotions buzzing in his mind. Kyle shoots him a look that's nothing but rage and fire and sharp daggers and it's so mean and intense that Stan feels the need to back down. Kyle doesn't hit him back, but when he inches toward Stan, an inch taller, but so lanky and thin that it appears to be so much more, everything in him wants to shrivel up and die. He grabs Stan by the shirt collar, which has no reason to be as scary as it is because Kyle is skinny and gangly, with awkwardly long limbs and minimal muscle mass, whereas Stan is well built and athletic -has always been a lot stronger than Kyle ever was- and yet he's terrified. Physically, he knows that he's more than capable to pushing Kyle off of him and beating him into the ground, but emotionally Stan is certain he'll never be able to do it.

 

“Don't you _ever_ ,” Kyle starts, and he's speaking through clenched teeth, his voice low and horrifying and forcing uncomfortable shivers up the bridge of Stan's spine. “Fucking hit me again.” He shoves Stan away from him, preparing to storm off and seethe in his anger, but is stopped by a catch of his wrist.

 

“Kyle, wait, fuck, I'm so sorry, I didn't-”

 

“Shut the fuck up!” Kyle shouts, whirling around with an anger blazing in his eyes like forest fire and Stan flinches away. “Don't bother trying to talk to me, Stan Marsh! You're a pathetic coward, and I wish you'd've just hung yourself when you had the chance.” Stan feels like an arrow has just pierced through his chest. He's not sure if he wants to cry or hit Kyle again, but when he speaks, he's disgusted by how soft and meek his voice sounds.

 

“You don't mean that.” Kyle rolls his eyes because even though Stan _knows_ he didn't mean it, he's stubborn and he's angry and he's going to continue saying hurtful things until he's able to cool off.

 

“Shut up! Why can't you ever just fucking listen to me? Can't you see that you're _killing_ yourself, that you're ruining your fucking life? For what? Self pity?” Kyle laughs meanly and Stan can't force himself to say much of anything. “Goddammit, excuse me for trying to _give a shit_. Apparently it's not working, so go ahead, drink yourself to death. See if I care.” He stomps off, leaving a trail of hurt in his wake and Stan has to grip his chest to keep from collapsing completely. Maybe he will drink himself to death. If he has to choose between that or lose Kyle, he'll gladly take the after life.

 

The fact that things don't have to come to that is both a blessing and a burden to Stan, because although it's been a few weeks into their Freshman year of high school and Kyle still hasn't spoken to him, he doesn't feel as though all hope is lost. He thinks he should apologize, because Kyle is far too stubborn to be the one to approach Stan, and he _had_ thrown the first punch. But he doesn't, because he's ashamed and he's upset and he doesn't want to have to talk about it, especially not with Kyle. They're best friends, and Stan loves that boy with all his heart, but he's horrible at talking about emotions, a trait Stan finds irritating at the best of times. He thinks Kyle is pretty emotionally stunted, whether it be from a desperation to prove his masculinity, or the fact that his brain is wired to be logic-oriented, Stan isn't sure, but he is aware that his best friend has no idea how to address topics like _feelings_ , aside from anger and smugness.

 

When Stan does gather up the courage to approach him, it's awkward. Kyle is at his locker, looking about as miserable as Stan feels as he struggles to shove his books into his backpack. Stan stoops to help him, not saying anything as he stuffs them inside Kyle's back and zips it up, trying to ignore the hard glare the other boy is giving him.

 

“Hey, so uh,” Stan rubs the back of his neck, because he's finding it difficult to look Kyle directly in the eyes and he's not even sure _why_. “I'm sorry, dude. I really don't want to be fighting anymore.” Kyle studies him quizzically and it makes Stan squirm. He doesn't like being under that heated gaze, not when it feels like it's burning holes in his flesh.

 

“Were we fighting?” Kyle asks coolly. “Because I thought be had already fought.” Stan is sort of annoyed, but he also knows that that's Kyle's aim, so he tries to swallow it.

 

“Yeah, we fought.” He says. He thinks Kyle is expecting him to give a recount of what happened, and he's fully prepared to do it, but when he opens his mouth again to speak, he's quickly cut off by a long, sad sigh.

 

“Sorry,” Kyle murmurs and although it's soft and ashamed, Stan thinks it sounds genuine. “I just –I get mad, I guess, and I overreact. I shouldn't be trying to dictate your life.” He offers Stan a meek little half smile and it's pretty sheepish and embarrassed and Stan thinks it's touching. It's a strange occurrence for Kyle to not be smug and arrogant about something, to not exhibit childish stubbornness when he feels positive he's right. Stan smiles back. He wants to keep talking, but he doesn't, the noise would be unnecessary if their friendship has already been rekindled.

 

* * *

 

The first time he kisses Kyle is the first time he's ever kissed a boy, and Stan is surprised by how much he likes it. He's fifteen and bicurious, because the only other person he's ever kissed has been Wendy and although she's pretty and her lips are soft and full, he's certain that he doesn't want to kiss her ever again. Kyle was right -he had been a pathetic coward to crawl back to her- too afraid of being alone to offer himself any ounce of self respect. He's not drunk when he and Kyle kiss, despite what everyone else seems to think. Sure, he's had a lot to drink -it _is_ a party after all- but he's not _drunk_. Tipsy, maybe, but he even doubts that. Stan's tolerance has gotten to a point where it's kind of impenetrable, and it takes a lot more to get him on his ass than it used to.

 

He kisses Kyle out of a dare. People know that they're friends, they know that Kyle Broflovski has never had a steady girlfriend, nor is he interested in obtaining one, and they're aware that he's never had his first kiss. A lot of people think Kyle has a crush on him, but Stan isn't so sure. He thinks he'd know if Kyle were gay, or at the very least bi, and he certainly thinks he'd know if his best friend had a crush on him. So he agrees, and everyone passes it off as a drunken state of delirium, the sort of thing Stan won't remember or care about the next morning. He's not drunk, though, and he's gotten to a point in his life where he thinks that _he_ might be the fag in their friendship. Although he's not sure, he thinks that maybe kissing Kyle will help confirm, or perhaps deny, some of his suspicions.

 

He finds Kyle in the kitchen, talking to Bebe and drinking water out of a red solo cup. He has a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes shoved into the back pocket of his jeans and Stan knows there's a bright green lighter in there, as well. He considers taking them from him, if for nothing more than the experience of getting to play grab ass with Kyle and passing it off as an accident, but he quickly decided against it. Stan thinks that would be a pretty douchey move, anyway. Instead, he places his hand on Kyle's shoulder, having recently sprouted to be a good three inches taller and significantly more muscular, and he feels kind of big and awkward next to him. He's never been taller than Kyle before, so it's still a weird experience. When Kyle pauses his conversation to look at him, a sweet grin on his face, Stan dives down, crashing his lips against those of his best friend.

 

He's pleasantly surprised. Kyle's lips are a lot thinner than Wendy's, but they're just as soft and warm and Stan kind of likes they way the fit better with his own. They're a little bit wet, probably from the water he'd been drinking, but Stan doesn't mind. He's always liked wet kissing, with lots of spit and tongue, so it's probably more pleasant to him than it would be to most others. Kyle, to his surprise, kisses back, cupping the side of Stan's jaw in his palm as he tentatively opens his mouth, flicking out his tongue in a way that's so hesitant and tame that Stan now knows for certain Kyle has never kissed anyone before. Still, he's not clumsy or sloppy, and his kisses remain soft and sweet and it's so fucking _good_ that Stan feels like his head might explode. When they pull away, Kyle is flushed red, his eyes half lidded and he makes no attempt to pull his body away from Stan's. Instead, he strokes his thumb over Stan's cheekbone, smiling softly.

 

“You're really drunk, aren't you?” He asks, and his voice is softer than a whisper. Stan thinks it's soothing, but he doesn't like the idea that he'd never be bold sober.

 

“No,” He says and Kyle's brows raise in surprise. “Just wanted to kiss you.” Kyle snorts and that's when he pushes Stan away, his face broken out into a wide grin that looks absolutely heavenly.

 

“Shut up,” he says, but it's playful, with a fondness behind it that makes Stan's heart melt. “C'mon, what was it? Did you lose a bet?” Stan shrugs and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He doesn't want to admit that he only kissed Kyle on a dare, but he also doesn't think his friend would believe it just _happened_.

 

“I just wanted to see what it would be like.” He says and Kyle's eyes brighten with amusement. It's not a lie, but it also wasn't Stan's driving factor. They're alone now, the kitchen having been completely deserted in their brief make out session, aside from a blushing Stan and a very, very smug looking Kyle.

 

“And?” He asks. “What was is like?” Stan is taken off guard by the question and he has to avoid Kyle's eyes completely as he scratches the back of his neck.

 

“Uh,” he says, and his voice sounds stupid. “Good? Wet. Your lips are really soft.” Kyle laughs again, pulling a cigarette out of the pack and placing it between his teeth. He hops up on to the kitchen counter, expertly lighting the cigarette with one flick of his lighter and inhaling deeply. Stan doesn't smoke much, but watching Kyle blow a puff of smoke from parted lips makes him wish he had a cigarette of his own. “I don't think you should be doing that in the house.” He says, stupidly, and Kyle's grin grows as he shrugs and blows out another large puff of smoke. He tosses Stan the pack of cigarettes, who catches them with ease, because he knows Kyle is offering him one, and he places it between his teeth. Lucky Strikes aren't his favorite brand; if he does smoke, Stan prefers Camels, but he'll take what he can get, and he knows Kyle huffs these things down like they're his oxygen, so he's a little honored that he's bothering to share. Kyle tosses him the lighter not a second later and Stan flicks it to life. He's not as good at it as Kyle is, but he manages to light his cigarette on the third try. He thinks that's reasonably impressive, considering his experience with smoking is pretty limited.

 

“You're a good kisser, you know that?” Kyle says, and Stan is hesitant to agree. Wendy had never told him he was a good kisser, but he hadn't really put much thought in it when they were together. Besides, Kyle doesn't have anyone to compare to, so he wouldn't _really_ know the difference between a good or a bad kisser. So instead of responding, he just laughs and takes a drag of his own cigarette. He feels a little bad for the plaguing the atmosphere with the smell of tobacco and nicotine, but not bad enough to stop. The Donovan's, he thinks, will just have to deal with it. Surely Clyde was expecting people to smoke in the house at some point, anyway. It's common knowledge that the teenagers of South Park don't have much else to do aside from drink and huff down packs of cigarettes until their lungs turn black.

 

“I'm serious.” Kyle says, and Stan wonders if that's true, because he's still grinning wide, smirking around the end of his cigarette in an expression that's hard to decipher, and Stan wonders if this whole situation is just one big joke to him. Maybe it is, and maybe that's for the best. Stan would rather Kyle find the kissing funny than upsetting. “You're really good. I wouldn't mind kissing you again.” Stan really does laugh at that, hard and loud enough for his ribs to hurt as he sputters around the smoke surrounding his teeth. He kind of wishes Kyle hadn't said something like that while he was trying to enjoy a smoke, because not his throat burns and he can't help but feel a little light headed. He has to remind himself that he is _not_ drunk. “That's an invitation, by the way.” When Kyle says it, he says it so offhandedly that Stan has to pause in order to process. He thinks the smoke filling the room might be messing with him, because he's almost certain that Kyle _did not_ just suggest what he thought he did. He blinks, kind of taken aback and no longer laughing.

 

“Wait, what?” He asks, and it's such a _dumb_ thing to ask because he knows exactly what Kyle said, and he knows exactly what Kyle meant, but he's still having a hard time understanding that _this is really happening._

 

“You can kiss me again.” Kyle says, but he doesn't sound so sure of himself all of a sudden and Stan feels like his head might implode. “If you want to.” When he tacks on that last bit, it's mumbled and unsure, as if every ounce of confidence has just deflated from his body. Stan does want to, but he also doesn't. He's scared -scared of what it'll mean for their friendship and scared of what it'll mean for _him_. Suddenly, the prospect of kissing is best friend is all too tempting, and he can't just write that temptation off as morbid curiosity out of a drunken mindset because he already _knows_ what it's like to kiss Kyle. Stan isn't an expert on sexuality, but he's fairly certain that a strong desire to make out against someone else's kitchen counter isn't something heterosexual mates experience, and that _terrifies_ him. Stan isn't a homophobe -at least he's pretty sure he isn't- but he's always sort of seen being gay as something that can effect anyone except for him. He's had his moments of bicuriosity rear their ugly heads in the past, but he's always figured that that's all they were, _curiosities._ Now, he isn't so sure. He swallows thickly, taking a long inhale from his cigarette and trying not to think too hard about what all these means.

 

“Yeah,” he says, blowing a large puff of smoke from the corner of his mouth. “I mean. Sure. I'm not, uh, I'm not _opposed_.” Kyle looks a little relieved, but mostly just awkward as he squirms in his place. It's his turn to take a large drag of his cigarette and he tips his head backwards before blowing a steady stream of smoke from his lips.

 

“You're _drunk_.” He says, finally, and Stan isn't sure whether or not he should be offended.

 

“I'm not.” He argues and it's almost as if those words bring Kyle pain. His eyes are squeezed shut and his free hand reaches to massage at his temple, before smoothing over the lines etched in his forehead.

 

“You are. Don't tell me you won't regret this tomorrow.” He argues back, and, really, it's just like Kyle to exhibit this kind of stubbornness. Stan really should have guessed he would be reacting this way. He takes a step closer, fitting his body between Kyle's legs, resting comfortably and just open enough to fit slender hips. One hand comes down to rest on top of the counter, right next to Kyle's hip, and the other quickly stubs out the half finished cigarette on the granite. He'll have to apologize to Clyde later.

 

“I won't regret this tomorrow.” Stan tries to sound more certain than he feels. He isn't drunk, not by a long shot, but that doesn't necessarily mean he won't start overthinking come morning, and Kyle _knows_ this. He cups Kyle's face in his palm and tries to ignore the way his heart is hammering in his chest. When their lips connect again, it's a lot more hesitant. Kyle's mouth isn't quite as wet as it had been before, and he tastes like cigarettes, but his lips are still soft and warm and fit oh so nicely with Stan's own. He opens his mouth just enough to let the tip of his tongue flick out and taste Kyle's lips, welcoming them to open as his hands hover over a slender waist. His arms wrap around Stan's shoulders, tugging hims closer as his lips part enough for Stan to slip his tongue past them, rolling along the inside of his mouth. Everything is wet and warm, and Stan would be lying if he said this wan't his favorite part of kissing, because he loves the way their tongues collide and how Kyle wraps his legs around his waist and tugs them as close together as humanly possible. He groans low in his throat when they break apart and Kyle's lips latch on to his pulse, sucking lightly and running his tongue over the spot. He's weirdly good at this, for having never done it before, and Stan wonders if it's just in his DNA to be good at everything.

 

He pulls Kyle's face up to meet his lips again, this time the kiss hungrier and more desperate as their mouths slot together and their heavy breaths mix. Stan is officially touching his waist now, running his fingertips over the exposed sliver of skin around his hip and he almost melts at how warm it feels. He wants to have his hands on Kyle's skin forever, to always reveal in his warmth and taste the skin of his lips. He sucks Kyle's lower lips between his teeth, biting lightly and letting his tongue run over it. He likes the way Kyle sounds when he's breathing heavily, likes the way his legs tighten around Stan's waist and his fingers curl into the fabric of his t-shirt. Stan doesn't think he's ever enjoyed kissing Wendy this much, a thought that makes him feel a little guilty.

 

When they pull away, Kyle's face is flushed and he's panting hard. Stan doesn't think he looks much better, and he can't stop the wide grin from splitting his face. He kisses Kyle again, this time softer and chaste, just to experience the feel of his lips once more.

 

“That was, uh,” for the first time since Stan's know him, Kyle appears to be at a loss for words.

 

“Good?” Stan suggests and he feels proud of himself, maybe a little too proud.

 

“Yeah,” Kyle says. “Good.”

 

* * *

 

Stan is sober when he sleeps with Wendy, but he really wishes he hadn't been, because the whole ordeal is a fucking mess. They're sloppy and uncoordinated, every shift of their bodies and messy, tongue filled kiss awkward and she keeps complaining that it hurts and that she's uncomfortable and _Jesus Christ, Stan, go slower,_ but he really just wants her to shut the fuck up so he can get this over with. She's warm and tight and physically, it feels amazing, but emotionally Stan fucking _hates_ everything about it, hates that he's some how been roped into this, that he's gone crawling back to her with a snap of her fingers. He feels pathetic, like he has no control over himself and that he'll do anything just to be with her again -or at least to not feel so alone. There was a time when Stan would have just accepted this as his fate, caught forever in a horrible, on again, off again relationship with a girl he loves, but really only in a platonic sense -but now things are different. Now he has Kyle, not just as his best friend, but as something more, and he's not sure if they're _boyfriends_ , or if they're just messing around, or what, but he really doesn't want to mess whatever it is they have up.

 

So he really only half listens when Wendy tells him to slow down, just kisses her when he notices his thoughts wandering and laves his mouth over her collarbones to leave little pink marks in his wake. He doesn't want to leave hickies because that's just more evidence of what they did together, and he thinks that if he catches a glimpes of them outside the security of her dark bedroom, he'll be sick. He's caught in a tornado of self loathing and physical pleasure and when he hears her whines, high pitched and needy, he can't help but think that they don't sound right. He has to pause his movements for a moment, to stop his hips from rolling as they rest flush against her pubic bone and he pants against the crook of her neck. Wendy's fingers run through his hair, and her nails are long and painted dark purple and they feel good scratching against his scalp, but he can't help but think of Kyle as they do. He asks himself why he's here, doing this with her when he could be in the same position with Kyle, and he really hates himself for the answer.

 

He _needs_ this, all for the sake of hanging on to his ever loosening hold on the final shreds of his heterosexuality, because if he fucks a girl, if he allows a girl to take his virginity, then he can't possibly be _gay_. And he does like fucking Wendy, in the most shallow sense, because his body has never felt better, but his mind and his soul are plagued with crushing guilt and the ever growing need to hurl himself off a roof top. He thinks of Kyle, of the exhilaration he felt when he held another boy's dick in his hand, and the memories are fresh and new and he both loves and despises them. He thinks of what the inside of Kyle's mouth felt like, and it's not that different to what he's experiencing now with Wendy -both warm and wet and soft and comparing them like this only makes Stan feel worse.

 

When they've finished -not even _two minutes_ later, as if Stan couldn't feel more pathetic- he immediately rolls off of her and toss the condom in the trash. He's breathing heavily, wiping his brow with the back of his hand and already preparing an excuse to leave, when she speaks first.

 

“I'm sorry.” She says, and he really hadn't been expecting that, so he's quiet for a moment, lost in his own shock.

 

“Sorry for what?” He asks carefully and watches as she begins to sit up, tying her dark hair back into a high ponytail. Wendy sighs, pulling the blanket around her chest in an attempt to cover herself. She sounds defeated, as if she's already regretting everything they just did. Stan would by lying if he said he wasn't in the same boat.

 

“For this,” she starts and Stan has both no idea what she's talking about and knows excatly what she means. “It's –we're a mess, you know?” He does know. He's known since the first time they broke up way back in the fourth grade, and he'll continue to know until they stop doing this, until they've officially finished with each other for good. But he doesn't say any of that: Wendy looks like she needs to just talk right now, not listen. “And I don't know _why_ I keep doing this to myself, or why you keep letting me and I just-” she groans in frustration and Stan briefly considers offering her a reassuring pat on the back, but restrains himself. He doesn't want to touch her right now. “I feel pathetic, because you're all I know and it's like every time I feel even a little bit lonely, I ask you to bend over backwards for me. It's not fair to either of us. Especially because I know you love someone else.” Stan doesn't confirm or deny if that's true. He does love Kyle, of course he does, but whether or not that love is romantic is kind of a tricky thing for him to decide.

 

“Do you regret it?” He asks, and he _knows_ the answer, but he feels the need to ask anyway. Wendy blows out a large puff of air, slouching into herself.

 

“Yeah.” She says, and Stan is a little bit offended, but most he's just sad. He wishes that they hadn't done this -that they'd just let the last spark of whatever relationship they'd once had burn out so they could move on to better things, things that would make the both of them much happier. For Stan, he's almost certain that's Kyle. For Wendy -well- he isn't sure, but he knows that she's smart and she's beautiful and could have anyone she so desired, and he thinks that she deserves that. He sits up then, swinging his legs over the side of her bed and bending down to retrieve his boxers.

 

“Me too.” He murmurs, tugging them on and standing to find the rest of his clothes. He ruffles his hair as he searches the room, trying his best to spot his jeans and his coat in the dark. He knows Wendy is watching him, but he doesn't want to turn back to look at her because he's _scared_. “I should've just said no.” He finds his t shirt next to her underwear and tugs it over his head when he hears Wendy sigh.

 

“I'm sorry if I messed with whatever it is you have with whoever you were thinking about.” Stan freezes, because he has no idea how Wendy could _know_ he was thinking about another person while he was fucking her. Is he really that transparent? He tugs on his jeans slowly, trying to buy himself a bit of time before he has to respond to her.

 

“Yeah,” he says back. “Me too. Because I think he'll kill me if he finds out about this.” He's not sure why he's saying all this to Wendy, because now he's just admitted he was thinking about a _guy_ while they were having sex, and maybe she'll think she's been some sort of beard this entire time. He doesn't want that because Stan knows he truly did love her, at least at one point, and he can't bear the idea that she'll think everything they had was fake. And he especially doesn't like the idea of Wendy thinking he's a fag. Even though he kind of is. She's quiet, though, and it only makes things worse because he has no idea what she's thinking and he can't even bear to look at her. “I'm not -I mean, I not, like, _gay_. I like girls, I just. I care about this one guy and,” he pauses. He knows he's rambling, but he can't seem to stop the word vomit from coming up when all he wants to do is stop talking. “I don't know. Everything is complicated right now.” He gathers up the courage to look at her and he feels his heart drop when he does. She has her lips pressed together in a thin line and the expression in her eyes is unreadable.

 

“Right,” she says, and Stan can't decipher her tone. Is she hurt? Upset? Angry? He really doesn't know. He's not sure if he _wants_ to know. “I think you should leave, Stan.”

 

“I think,” he says, before swallowing thickly and pulling on his coat. “That's a good idea.”

 

* * *

 

When Kyle finds out, the first thing he does is punch Stan in the stomach. Stan isn't sure why he's surprised, because Kyle has never been the type to ice someone out in his anger, nor is he the sort to passive aggressively let on that he's upset. No, he's always been an act first, question later sort of person, with a firecracker rage and fists ready to throw a punch. So it's not actually all that strange for him to coming running at Stan in the middle of the school day, connecting his fist to the softest part of Stan's stomach and causing him to double over in pain. The air gets knocked out of him and he stumbles back, wrapping is arms around his torso as he desperately tries not to cough and sputter. Kyle is shaking in his spot, teeth clenched and fire burning behind his eyes as his hands ball into fists so tight his knuckles turn white. Stan knows he knows, but he doesn't want to admit to his mistakes, doesn't want to have to tell his best friend his shame and humiliation, especially not if it means getting hit again.

 

“You mother _fucker_!” Kyle shouts, loud enough to gain outside attention that makes Stan want to curl into a ball and die.

 

“Dude,” Stan groans, his voice low and weak and he _sounds_ like he just got socked in the stomach. “What the fuck?” He knows it's the wrong thing to say the second he says it because he watches Kyle's face erupt in flames and he has to flinch away from another solid punch.

 

“ _Fuck. You._ ” Kyle says, and it's not a shout but his voice his loud and searing in the lava of his anger as his body quakes in his place. Stan knows this sort of rage on Kyle, and it's usually reserved for people like Eric Cartman. Stan's _never_ had it directed at him before and he's kind of terrified. He watches as Kyle takes a deep breath, letting his eyes flutter closed in an attempt to calm down, at least a little, before speaking again. “We need to to talk.” He says, and he's still clearly enraged, but the fire has dies out and he's thinking a bit more rationally. Stan does think they need to talk, but he doesn't want to. Not if it'll end in him getting punched again. He agrees, anyway, and he's led outside, behind the school where kids usually go to smoke or fuck when they're skipping class. There's an alcove near the dumpsters where teacher's never check and it's the best place to have a bit of privacy. The sit on the pavement, backs against the dirty brick of the school and Stan can feel his heart hammering a million miles a minute inside his chest, pounding against his sternum until it hurts.

 

“I can't believe you.” Kyle says and he sounds so disappointed and _hurt_ that Stan can feel himself deflate. He doesn't know how to respond, so he just waits for Kyle to continue. “I can't _fucking believe_ you.” His brow is creased in his frustration and Stan has to stop himself from wrapping his arms around him and murmuring sweet declarations of love into his ear. “I thought we were -I don't know. I don't know what we were, but I thought we were _something,_ and I just. I trusted you. I _trusted_ you and I _loved_ you and I let you,” he pauses, his cheeks burning red and Stan can't tell if it's from anger or embarrassment. He takes a deep, shaky breath and tries again. “I let you _touch me_ , and kiss me and I _did_ things with you that I promised myself I wouldn't do unless it was with someone I _loved_. But I guess it was all just fucking around, right?” He looks at Stan and it's so meaningful and hurt and Stan feels like his heart has just been ripped out of his chest. “So what even am I to you? Some sort of, what, gay experimentation?”

 

“No.” Stan says, but his voice sounds weak and quiet, so he clears his throat and tried again. “No. You're not just an expeiriment, you're –fuck, Kyle, I _love_ you.”

 

“Then why the _fuck_ would you fuck someone else!” He's shouting now, eyes red rimmed and glistening with tears and Stan thinks he may as well have punched him again because everything _hurts_.

 

“I don't know.” He whispers, and it's true. He has _no idea_ why he slept with Wendy. It didn't do anything but create a bigger mess for himself. Hell, he even knew that it was a bad idea going in, knew that it wouldn't do anything but hurt Kyle and make him feel like a loser, and he did it anyway because he's pathetic. “I really don't know. She has this way of getting into my head and making me crawl back to her, even when I don't want to.” Stan knows it's a lame excuse, but it's the best he can come up with and he thinks his heart shatters when he sees Kyle roll his eyes.

 

“Okay, well, you can crawl back to her as much as you want. We're fucking over.” Stan can only wish he had said something as he watched Kyle walk away.

 

* * *

 

They're back together within a week, officially boyfriends and one hundred percent exclusive, but it's not the same. Stan doesn't think it'll ever be the same because now Kyle doesn't trust him. So he starts drinking again, heavily and without remorse. He shows up to school nearly everyday tipsy and with a flask shoved in his backpack, filled to the brim with an unholy mix of vodka and rum and pretty much anything else he can find in the back of his parents' liquor cabinet. He can tell that Kyle is worried, but they doesn't really talk about it and they spend a lot more time making out and giving each other messy, five minute blowjobs instead of playing video games or watching TV or doing anything else they used to do together. Normally, that wouldn't be a bad thing, but Stan can tell that it's because they don't even know how to be together anymore, that they're not really friends, or even really _boy_ friends, but that they've morphed into fuck buddies, cold and distant with nothing else to do but fuck around. It makes Stan sad. He feels like, even though he can Kyle are physically closer than ever, they've never been more emotionally distant, and he misses his best friend. They're miserable together, but a thousand times worse when they're not, and Stan always feels sick to his stomach because he knows it's his fault.

 

He's at Kyle's house on Friday night and he's just turned sixteen. It's mid November, cold enough that they have to start wearing their hats and their coats indoors or else they'll freeze in an instant. It's really only at Kyle's place, though, because his parents are cheap and don't like keeping the heater running if they can just bundle up instead, so Stan is wrapped in a comforter as he lays across Kyle's carpet, watching his boyfriend get his ass handed to him in _Street Fighter._ They're having a bet; whoever gets a better score while playing their absolute worst character gets blown by the other. So far, Stan is winning, but it's hard to tell because Kyle's PS4 only has one controller, which means they can't go head to head. He doesn't mind too much because he's feeling pretty content like this, laying on his stomach on the floor, cocooned in a big, fluffy blanket and casually poking fun at Kyle as he desperately tries not to get beat by a computer. Things feel a lot more normal like this, when they can just speak freely and joke around and be _friends_ again. Stan misses it a lot.

 

He sits up when Kyle is finished, having been thoroughly creamed and scowling at the ground in irritation. Stan kisses him on the cheek and it's wet and big and makes Kyle flinch away as he wipes at the kiss mark with the back of his hand.

 

“Dude!” He says, and he sounds a little grossed out, but mostly amused so Stan just grins back.

 

“You lost.” He says and Kyle shrugs nonchalantly, his lips quirking up in a slight grin.

 

“Yeah.” He agrees and he doesn't sound as bitter about it as Stan would expect him to, which is actually kind of shocking. He had expected Kyle to lament his loses only after throwing a big, stubborn fit about them. He grins and leans in to plant a kiss to Kyle's lips, who accepts it without complaint and opens his mouth almost immediately, because at this point they've spent more time kissing than doing probably anything else and Kyle knows what Stan wants, knows that he needs tongue and teeth as soon as possible. The blanket falls off of Stan's shoulders, creating a heap on the ground as Kyle crawls into his lap. They're home alone, aside from Ike, who's down stairs watching TV and isn't likely to bother them, so Stan doesn't hesitate to pull Kyle against him, letting his hands rest against the small of his boyfriend's back. Partly for stability, but partly because he knows Kyle is sensitive there, and that the lower Stan lets his fingers dip, the closer he'll get to third base. He rolls his hips just a little, just subtly enough for Kyle's breath to hitch, but not eliciting much more of a reaction, and he's not expecting Kyle to reciprocate, to grind down on him almost without mercy. Stan gasps, loudly, because he's surprised, but mostly because it feels good and he wants Kyle to do it again.

 

“I love you.” Stan murmurs against his skin. Kyle only hums in response, which is kind of off putting, but Stan figures it's the best he'll get for now, so he doesn't complain. Really, if he wanted Kyle to tell him he loved him, he shouldn't have fucked Wendy. He knows that. It still hurts.

 

“Stan,” Kyle says. The sound of his name, so breathy and desperate, sends a shiver down Stan's spine. He wants Kyle to say it again, just like that. Until, of course, he says something even better. “I want you to fuck me.” There's a moment of shocked quiet where Stan isn't positive what he's supposed to say. He _wants_ to, of course he does, but he also needs a moment to process the request. He pulls away, exhaling loudly as he rests his forehead against Kyle's, their breath mixing together.

 

“Are you sure?” He asks. Maybe that's a dumb question; Kyle wouldn't have asked if he weren't absolutely sure. Except he didn't exactly _ask_. More like demanded. He watches as Kyle nods his head frantically, face flushed and eyes half lidded, as if just the kisses alone have already left him brain dead and drooling. Maybe Stan is proud of himself for that, or maybe he just loves the way it looks on Kyle's skin. Either way, that expression is doing _things_ to his body.

 

“Kyle,” Stan murmurs, his lips brushed against Kyle's skin, warm breath fanning out across his neck. Stan is suddenly hit, however with a realization, or, really, more of a question; do _he_ even want to? He considers this as he continues to pepper soft, open mouthed kisses against Kyle's neck, his skin warm and wonderful -everything Stan has ever wanted to just sink into and forget his troubles, and he thinks that he'd be happy spending the rest of his life doing this, exchanging soft kisses and reveling in each other's warmth. But he knows that Kyle can't, that Kyle wants to be fucked, and he wants to be fucked _right now_ and Stan isn't sure if he can _do_ that, or if he even wants to. Wendy had been a mistake, and he can't help but shake the feeling that if he has sex with Kyle now, when they've yet to fully reestablish their relationship, it'll be a mistake, too. Stan doesn't want their relationship to be based on sex, he wants the sex to be based around their relationship, and maybe that's cheesy, but Stan is also kind of a romantic -more so than Kyle will ever be- and he can't stand the thought of  _fucking_ someone who's still mad at him.

 

He exhales slowly, his breath shaky and hot as he pulls away from Kyle's skin, staring up at him almost apologetically. Kyle's eyes are so _green_ , wide and intelligent and beautiful in a way that Stan will never understand, and he thinks that there's poison in them. Maybe not showing itself now, but it'll start oozing out of his corneas soon enough, seeping into his skin and forcing his muscles to twitch in his anger. Stan isn't ready for it, isn't ready for that _look_ he knows Kyle will get when he turns him down, that expression of angered confusion as his lips tilt down in a firm scowl and the poisonous liquid in his eyes freezes over to harden. It's for that reason exactly that Stan _hates_ saying no to him.

 

“Kyle,” he says again, his voice soft as he gently runs his thumb over Kyle's jawline. He rests their foreheads together, the tips of their noses brushing against each other and their eyes fluttered closed. Stan can feel Kyle's breath against his lips, panting and hot. “I can't. I can't do it.” he waits in fear for a response, because the quiet before the storm is always, _always_ , the most terrifying part.

 

“....Okay,” Kyle says, and he sounds disappointed and embarrassed, but not upset. Stan is kind of surprised, but the lack of anger directed towards him is making him feel guilty. He _knows_ Kyle wants him, and he thinks it must hurt to not be wanted in return. “Sorry, I just thought-”

 

“No, shit, no -don't apologize.” Stan rushes to say. He's holding Kyle tighter now, his hands gripping him almost too harshly. “You-” he pauses, swallows, and tries again. “You didn't do anything wrong.” Stan is surprised when he feels Kyle wrap his arms around him, hugging tightly. He hadn't been expecting physical affection, but is still happy to receive it. He thinks that maybe this is the start of their slow and difficult journey toward forgiveness. It's certainly the most reminiscent of what they had before in the time they've been together. Stan is content to fall asleep like that, wrapped in Kyle's arms on the floor of his bedroom.

 

* * *

 

When the South Park High School varsity football team qualifies for championships, Kyle is more ecstatic than Stan is, which is a feat in and of itself. Stan likes football, will even go as far as to say that he loves it, but he doesn't play for the sake of trophies and titles and bragging rights -he plays because he enjoys the sport. Part of him thinks Kyle likes having a boyfriend on the football team, for nothing else than to tell people that the varsity quarterback of Park County loves _him_. Stan knows that Kyle likes to brag sometimes, as if to prove that he is good enough for the affections of someone as _popular_ and _cool_ as a football player, but he also thinks all that is unnecessary. Kyle is incredible enough on his own, he doesn't _need_ Stan's title to bring himself up. Still, playing championships in Boulder, against Fairview high school, is kind of a big deal for little old South Park high, and Stan is both excited and a nervous wreck. Stan is a senior now, and he's only got one more shot at winning a championship game, so he desperately hopes that he'll be able to lead his team to victory.

 

He appreciates Kyle's support more than anything, and considers it to be his own little victory when coach allows Kyle to ride on the bus with them up to Boulder. He's nudged between Stan and the window, absentmindedly flipping through a book and pretending that the noise of roughly forty rowdy, over excited high school football players isn't bothering him, because he knows that he can't complain on a day that's so important to his boyfriend. Stan throws his arm around him, pulling Kyle into his side and pressing a wet, sloppy kiss to his cheek. It's loud, too, making a few people in the general vicinity side eye them, but no one says anything. Stan is out to his team, it being common knowledge that Stan Marsh and Kyle Broflovski are together and very, very much in love, but that doesn't mean there aren't people who are still uncomfortable with it. Stan tries to ignore it when he can, but he also always feels the need to defend Kyle whenever his team mates make off handed, ignorant comments.

 

Kyle looks up from his book to shoot Stan a grin, but his eyes look tired and annoyed, as if he'd rather be _anywhere_ but here. Stan understands, he knows that a three hour bus ride with forty high school boys isn't ideal, especially when some of them keep sending Kyle looks, as if trying to convey _you don't belong here_ non verbally. If the roles were reversed, Stan wouldn't want to be here, either, but he also is thankful for Kyle's presence. He's positive that if his boyfriend weren't by his side, he'd melt into a puddle of nerves and start quaking in his seat. Kyle cups Stan's face in his hand, leaning forward to press a light peck to his lips as he strokes his thumb over Stan's cheekbone soothingly. It's a sweet gesture, but it's too intimate for their present company, and Stan can't help but feel the urge to push Kyle away. He's not ashamed of him -God forbid- but he also understands that if they act _too_ couple-y then they'll just be playing with fire, and he can't handle that. The last thing he needs is for his team to stop listening to him in the middle of their championship game, all because they don't take orders from a _fag_.

 

“Nervous?” Kyle asks, and he's smirking a little, but his hand has dropped back down to his side and they're not sitting quite so close together anymore. Stan is both grateful and craving his presence back.

 

“A little.” Stan says, even though it's a lie and he's positively _shaking_ with anxiety. “Having you here helps.” When he says it, it's barely a whisper and he's almost certain Kyle didn't a hear a word over the noise of the crowd. He's surprised when he sees his boyfriend's face light up in a wide grin.

 

“Yeah, well,” Kyle starts, and he closes his book in his lap, staring down at the cover. “I wouldn't miss it for the world.”

 

* * *

 

When they lose, Stan punches a locker hard enough to see the metal cave in. he can feel his heart hammering erratically in his chest, his lungs filled with gasoline as he struggles to catch his breath. He can tell that his team is disappointed, saddened, and some of them even a little angry, but no one quite as furious as Stan. It's weird for them to see him this way, face twisted in his rage, body flushed red and knuckles split from the impact of the punch, and everyone is quiet. Coach has already given them a talk, letting them know that they lost because they didn't play their best, that Fairview shouldn't have stood a fucking _chance_ , but here they are -trophy-less and disappointed for another year. Stan couldn't agree more, but that's not why he's pissed: he's pissed because he let the other team get inside he head, he's pissed because he own team didn't have the _balls_ to back him up, and he's pissed because all of his own plays were off. Stan is pissed with his team mates, but he's mostly disappointed with himself.

 

He notices the quiet in the locker room once he's had a moment to catch his breath and shake out the pain in his hand. Coach is gone at this point, but he also probably heard the commotion and will be running back inside in a second. Stan huffs, plopping down on a bench and burying his head in his hands. He's so fucking _upset_ , and he can't even bring himself to care about the fact that all eyes are on him. He _dares_ one of them to speak up, to tell him that he's overreacting or that it's just a goddamn game, or that it's his fault they lost, but the others stay quiet, watching and waiting with wide eyes and pounding heartbeats.

 

“I'm going to have to pay for property damage, aren't I?” He asks, mostly to himself, and it's not really a joke, but Stan still hears someone awkwardly scoff from his right. He manages to crack a weak grin.

 

“I can picture the headline now,” It's Clyde speaking, who isn't necessarily Stan's favorite person in existence, but they get along okay. For the most part, Stan likes Clyde. “'South Park High School's starting quarterback, Stan Marsh, fucking _obliterates_ Fairview locker room.'” Stan manages a weak laugh, although his heart isn't in it. He appreciates Clyde for trying to cheer him up, though.

 

He gets dressed slowly, peeling off his jersey and shoulder pads at in what looks to be almost slow motion as he massages his sore muscles. His shoulders took a hit after a particularly brutal tackle and his kind of wanders is Kyle will be willing to rub his back tonight. Or ride him. Either would be pretty fucking nice. He wonders, even, if Kyle would be willing to cheer him up at all. He knows his boyfriend must be pretty disappointed himself because, all though he doesn't play it, he's always liked football almost as much as Stan and he was _so_ fucking excited about this game. They'll have to cheer each other up, it looks like, which definitely sex, and maybe Stan eating Kyle out. A blow job or two may also be involved, if Stan's lucky enough.

 

He's the last one out of the locker room, his gym bag slung over his good shoulder and his hair still dripping wet after his shower. Kyle is waiting outside for him and he looks pretty disappointed, but when they make eye contact, he smiles softly. They embrace, Stan dropping his bag in favor of wrapping his arms around Kyle's waist and burying his face in his neck. Kyle's smell his a nice comfort, warm and sweet, like cinnamon and fresh baked bread, and Stan can't seem to get enough. He can feel Kyle's fingers running through his hair, nails lightly running over his scalp, and it's comforting. He presses a kiss to Kyle's throat before slowly pulling away.

 

“You're staying the night, right?” He asks and Kyle smiles softly and nods, which makes Stan breathe out a sigh of relief. He doesn't know what he'd do without Kyle next to him in bed tonight, his warmth and his presence a huge comfort in itself.

 

“Of course, dude. I'm really sorry about-” Stan cuts him off, shaking his head as his arms snake back around Kyle's waist, touching the small of his back.

 

“Don't, it's fine. I'm just exhausted.” He says and Kyle doesn't really looks like he believes him, but he doesn't press further. He touches Stan's bad shoulder, rubbing his thumb over it.

 

“Is your shoulder okay? You landed on it pretty hard earlier.” He sounds worried, and Stan is grateful to have such a wonderful, caring person in his life. He shrugs, because he's tired of lying about how he's feeling right now and the least he can do is admit his physical pain.

 

“It's pretty sore. Do you think you'd massage it for me tonight?” Kyle's lips quirk up a bit, as if he knows that Stan is asking for more than just a shoulder massage, and there's a spark in his eyes, igniting behind the oceans of green. The bus ride back home feels like an eternity, with Kyle pressed to Stan's side, stroking his thigh in a way that's innocent enough for outside eyes, but dirty enough to hint at what's to come.

 

* * *

 

Stan has to slap his hand over Kyle's mouth to keep him from waking the house. It's late and his parents are asleep and Kyle is notoriously loud during sex. Stan can't afford waking his family, only for them to find him in such a compromising position, even though it _kills_ him to silence Kyle's little whimpers and moans. He's straddling Stan's thighs, his hips rolling egarly as his hands grip the headboard behind Stan's head. For a moment, he thinks Kyle's grip is tight enough to snap the wood off completely, and he wonders if that incident would be hot or terrifying. He's holding Kyle's hips, his thumbs pressing into the divots as he bucks his hips up desperately. He's not inside yet, but he'd be happy with just this -humping like dogs as they both chase for release- even though he knows Kyle won't be. They're kissing, and it's sloppy and open mouthed and Stan can feel the drool on his chin as their mouths gape open to allow room for each other's tongues. When they're turned on enough, kisses become more tongue than lips, which Stan likes, but Kyle thinks is messy and sometimes he'll pull away to wipe the spit from his mouth.

 

He's not pulling away this time, though. As a matter of fact, he's keeping them together, one hand moving from its place on the headboard to cup Stan's cheek, keeping his face and his warmth as close as possible. Stan thinks he needs to pull away, just long enough to grab the lube and coat himself in it so they can finally get this show on the road, but Kyle isn't letting him go. He's mewling softly, his hips moving faster out of sheer desperation and Stan is certain that he won't last much longer like this, but he bucks against him anyway. Stan can tell that Kyle is getting close, so he manages to pry his hand away from his boyfriend's hip to wrap it around Kyle's dick, gripping it with just the right amount of pressure and pumping quickly. Kyle gasps, so lost in himself that he can't even find the motor function required to continue moving his lips. He twitches and jerks, his body shaking on top of Stan's, breathing labored. Stan presses wet, open mouthed kisses to his neck, grinding his hips up against the curve of Kyle's ass and pumping faster. He bites down when Kyle gasps and cums, spilling over Stan's hand and stomach.

 

He slumps against Stan when it's over, body shaking and breathing heavy. Stan runs his fingertips up and down Kyle's spine. He's still hard, but his knees also feel like jelly and he's exhausted. He probably wouldn't mind just falling asleep and letting himself cool down. Kyle twists his fingers into to Stan's hair and it's soothing enough to make his eyelids heavy.

 

“Fuck,” Kyle breaths and Stan laughs lightly, nudging his nose against the side of Kyle's temple. He shifts, his dick bumping against Kyle's ass in the process and making him hiss, his body shooting up immediately. “You're still...” He trails off, turning his wide eyes on Stan as he smooths his palms over the expanse of Stan's chest. Stan just shrugs in return. He doesn't want to make it seem like a big deal if it doesn't need to be, and if Kyle just wants to curl up and go to bed, he can jerk off in the shower. Kyle kisses him, deep but not heated, and Stan thinks it's pleasant without being overtly sexual. He likes kissing Kyle, likes being so close to him, physically, and when he cups his face, he never wants that warmth to leave. “Let me take care of you.” Kyle murmurs when they pull away, lips barely a centimeter apart. Stan's breath hitches and he nods without saying a word.

 

Kyle doesn't hesitate to kiss down his chest, stopping only to suck random patches of skin into his mouth, leaving faint pink marks in his wake. Stan groans softly and scoots to lay back down. He knows what Kyle is planning and he can't fucking _wait_. When he feels warm breath skim the divots of his hips, he gasps slightly, his muscles tensing in anticipation. His toes curl when Kyle's teeth scrape across the skin there and he lets out a long breath when he feels lips on his inner thigh.

 

“Kyle,” he groans, and he's vaguely aware that he has to keep his voice down, but part of him just wants to say _fuck it_ and scream to the roof tops about how much he loves this boy. He can feel Kyle's lips grin against his skin before he presses a kiss to the underside of Stan's dick. Stan lets out a small breath of air and it sounds a bit like a grunt, but it's soft and quiet, nothing that will alert the rest of the house to what they're doing. He feels a tongue run up the length of his shaft and lets his eyes flutter closed as he breathes another heavy puff of air out of his nose. When Kyle takes the tip into his mouth, collecting precum with his tongue, Stan can't help but gasp and groan, trying to muffle the noises by biting his lip. He tangles his fingers into Kyle's hair and tries not to pull to tightly or buck into his mouth, but both are proving themselves difficult when all he want to do is enter that wet heat and feel himself at the back of Kyle's throat.

 

He nearly shouts when Kyle sinks down, engulfing him in warmth and wrapping his hand around what can't fit into his mouth. Stan chews on his lower lip and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to concentrate on not cumming then and there. He wants to look, to see Kyle's head bobbing his his lips stretched around the circumference of Stan's dick, but he also knows that he's worked up enough for the sight alone to make him cum, and he doesn't want this to end just yet. He tries to even his breathing, wondering if his grip on Kyle's hair is too tight when suddenly a twist of a wrist and flick of a tongue has him cumming down his boyfriend's throat, mouth open in a silent gasp. Kyle swallows like a champion, and doesn't come back up until he's sucked down every drop. He grins when he's down and Stan tries to offer a smile back, but he's so tired and he can feel his eyes drooping closed. Kyle snuggles up next to him as Stan yawns.

 

“Sleepy? He asks and Stan can't respond verbally as he lets his eyes flutter shut.

 

“Mm-hm.” He hums and Kyle nuzzles into the side of his neck, wrapping his arms around Stan's waist. Looks like he's going to be the big spoon this time. Stan doesn't mind.

 

“We should shower.” He says, offhandedly, even though he's fully aware that they're not going to leave this bed.

 

“Can't,” Stan responds. “Too tired. We'll shower in the morning.” Kyle hums in response and they slowly drift off to sleep.

 

* * *

 

There's comfort in being able to sleep next to Kyle every night, now that there's a gold ring on his finger and an apartment all to their own. Stan has never been able to sleep quite as well as he does when Kyle is laying right beside him, his warmth always bringing the dark spiral of his thoughts back into the present moment. He likes being married, even if it's not different from dating, aside from the overbearing permanence of it, and he hopes Kyle does too. There's something about saying 'husband' in place of 'partner' or 'boyfriend' that makes Stan feel giddy, as if his heart is filling with joy at just the thought, and he wants to continue to call Kyle is husband for the rest of his life. The sex is great, too, now that they don't have to worry about parents bursting in on them and Stan can quietly admire the way Kyle's wedding band shines when he's riding Stan's dick. It's nice, even though it's unnecessary in terms of proving their love, but Stan has always been more of a romantic than Kyle, so he had been excited about the prospect of getting married. They don't have enough money for a proper wedding yet, but they have rings and hyphenated last names and a bunch of legal documents to prove that they're a little family, all on their own, and for Stan, that's enough.

 

Kyle, ever the overachiever, has already finished his Bachelor's program at the University of Denver in a period of three years, and by next semester he's going into his graduates program. Stan is still struggling to finish out his junior year, but he's almost certain that he wants to go into veterinary school when he's done, even if he isn't sure where yet. He doesn't know what this means for their relationship, and if they'll have to figure out a long distance marriage as they both finish school, but he figures they'll cross that bridge when they come to it. They've certainly struggled through more trying times in the past.

 

Kyle comes home from work a little passed six o'clock that night, looking positively exhausted as he falls into the couch. Stan is at the kitchen table, studying for a biology exam and he offers his husband a sympathetic smile before returning to his textbook.

 

“I'm going to throw myself off a building.” Kyle says, his voice muffled by the couch cushions, and Stan hums in response.

 

“Rough day?” He asks, and Kyle grunts in return. “Do you want a drink?” He watches as Kyle lifts his head just enough to nod before stepping away from the table to get his husband a beer. He's not yet twenty-one, but Stan is and he doesn't mind being the one to buy alcohol for the house. They drink together in silence, Kyle stewing in whatever it was that made him so upset and Stan letting his thoughts wander. They haven't been getting all too dark lately, but he's not sure if that's because he's genuinely happy or if he's been put on new anti-depressants, but he'll count his blessings regardless. He wraps his arm around Kyle, pulling him into his body and pressing a kiss to his temple. Kyle smiles tiredly up at him and rests his head on Stan's shoulder. The quiet isn't awkward, even though Stan will always prefer noise in order to keep his thought occupied, and he allows himself to relax against Kyle's warmth.

 

When Stan is at his worst, he's nothing; he's an empty body, hurling through a floating rock in the depths of outer space, with nothing to comfort him but the burn of liquor and thoughts of a miracle. But when he's at his best, locked in the arms of his husband, his love, his _best friend_ , he feels like he can do anything. Kyle _is_ his miracle, Stan thinks, and there's not a person in the universe who can tell him otherwise. No matter the challenge that life throws at him, Stan will be ready and willing to face it, so long as Kyle is by his side.

 

 


End file.
